Hello, my lovelies!

I'm back at long last. Sorry for leaving you hanging for so long. I had hoped to be back sooner but, well ... life, I guess?

Anyway, enjoy, and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

35. Mereth-en-nîn PART II

And then the two women were off, off to peruse the pottery wares of a nearby stall, although Éomer could tell that they were not nearly as focused on the clay cups in their hands as they liked to appear. Peeking at them across their shoulders ever and anon, and then proceeding to whisper more or less secretly, Lothíriel was doing her best to calm the young woman at her side, though the queen herself seemed less than certain of the outcome. And so the two men were left on their own, both watching their women as the awkward tension stretched out between them in brooding silence. It was a test of strength of course: to see who could last the longest in their silent stand-off, as no one wanted to be the first to talk for fear of appearing the weak one who would cave in first. Or, perhaps, inwardly, both men were just too busy preparing themselves for a fist fight they both might deem inevitable.

It was Éomer then, as time wore on and the silence dragged on along with it, who grew increasingly restless, and who, above all else, simply wanted this to be done and over with, so he knew at last where they stood with things. Therefore, it was not so hard to understand that the king of the Riddermark did not see his own breaking of the silence as a sign of weakness but rather as a feat of strength coming from a bigger man, to allow the smaller man at least this small, first victory, and thus he spoke with ease and confidence, 'So, how do you wanna do this?'

'No idea, horse-boy. You're the one who wanted to talk.'

Cracking his knuckles, Éomer only laughed, though not out of amusement, but out of frustration, and perhaps it even was that feeling of peevishness, of feeling so incredibly fed-up with this pirate-fucker that he decided that at long last he'd had enough, and that from now on the gloves were off. Because if this princeling thought to mock him with his patronising and his jabs, then, Béma help him!, so could he!

'Listen, I get it – '

'You don't get shit, horse-boy.'

'I said, I get it.', Éomer started again then, trying to ignore the rude interruption by the pirate prince next to him, though the tension in his jaw as he continued to speak, perhaps, told quite a different, and much pettier, story, 'You've always been number one with your sister and you just can't accept that she has a new man in her life now. I get it.'

'Hmm.', was all the pirate fucker deigned to say, not even gracing him with so much as a look or a fully-fledged quip, but the king could tell that the words were definitely getting to him – that teeth grinding could be heard even over the singing and cheering and dancing happening in the background. Satisfied that this approach was getting a rise out of that slippery Southern eel at long last, Éomer continued.

'I have a sister, too, you know? Like I said, I get it.'

'Yeah?', the prince chimed in then, a smile plastered on his annoyingly handsome face, and, judging by the fucker's expression, Éomer was already anticipating yet another mocking jab made at his expense, but then, the challenging grin from before inexplicably soured, and with eyes hardened in nothing pure contempt and hatred, the young prince went in for the kill then, 'So, tell me, my lord, what would you do with a man who treated your sister the way you have treated mine?'

'I'm not sure I understand what you're insinuating.', the king said slowly then – all he really could say in that moment, to be honest, as most of his mind was working hard and fast, thinking of all the times that he had failed to be the man for his wife that he had wanted to be. The rest of his mind was still trying to process how this "talk" had gotten so totally out of hand so fucking quickly.

'Oh, I'm pretty sure, you know exactly what I'm insinuating, Éomer king.', the prince continued then, a mean-spirited smile playing around his lips, and it became clear to the king that his queen hadn't been the only one in that wretched family who had been reared to be a merciless politician – and worst of all, it was fucking working.

'Listen, princeling, if you've got something to say, then say it and don't puss around.', Éomer pressed out, trying his best not to lose his cool, though it became harder and harder by the second, especially considering the wicked smile that still decorated the pirate's lips, taunting him with his perceived superiority, 'But I'm warning you, if you've got something to say, I might be saying something as well – and trust me, you won't like that.'

'My, my, that temper of yours, your Highness – why, I've heard quite a lot about that, but experiencing it first-hand, my, that's something else entirely.'

'I. Do. Not. Have. A. Temper.', Éomer lied through clenched teeth, feeling his cheeks burn with the proof that belied his words. Oh, how he hated those Southern bastards with their quiet, perceptive ways of getting under his skin and provoking him into losing his cool like that!

'No? What happened to your hand then, I wonder?', the prince asked then with smug confidence and no small amount of amusement at having succeeded in getting yet another rise out of this Northern barbarian. Instinctively, Éomer tried to hide the hand that he had clenched into a fist, and that was still bandaged from his latest slip-up. But as he tried to cover up the remnants that his angry outburst had left behind, he could not help but remember that moment from two weeks ago; the fight, and the blaming, and the hurtful things that had been said, and above all else, the fear in his wife's eyes as she had actually thought him capable of using violence against her, even if only for a moment. It was true, he had always been a warrior, a man capable of great violence, but never with her; with her, he had wanted to be a different man, a better man, a man that wanted to love and to be loved in return.

It was that thought, that memory, that cooled down his anger slowly but surely, and rather than rage he felt regret now, regret for all the things he had done and all the things he should have done, a regret that made his tongue feel heavy and his throat dry, a regret that made it difficult to talk and yet talk he did, 'Listen, whatever you heard – whatever you think you heard – I've treated your sister with nothing but respect, as she deserves, as she is my Queen, after all.'

'A queen, yes.', the prince mused contemplatively, his grey-blue eyes flitting over to the two women admiring an especially well-crafted clay cup, his brotherly eyes seeing a lady and a commoner acting as nothing but two young women happy to share the simple joys of this day. And even though the woman with nobler blood in her veins knew much of pleasures and was rich and powerful beyond a commoner's dreams, compared to the woman of poorer status, she was yet poorer still, starved as she was for the rich freedom of simple joys. This, and much more, the brother must have seen, because when he spoke again, there was a graveness to his words the king would not have thought him capable of, 'But have you treated her as your wife as well?'

And that was enough to shut him up for good. Taking quite off guard, the king was mostly unsure what the prince was implying here, and even more unsure what to say to that. Because, what could he say, really? That he had taken dinner with her? That he had spent afternoons riding out with her? That he had taken her to their marriage bed and brought her pleasure? Well, not exactly something he wanted to discuss with anyone really, and least of all with this supposed brother-in-law for that matter. So, in lieu of knowing what to say, Éomer simply stayed quiet – best to give that Southern arse some of his own medicine and to wait and see what he would do next. And that, as it turned out, seemed to have been the best course of action, as the princeling soon squirmed under the innate compulsion to hear himself talk, and then it was only a matter of seconds before –

'You must know – surely you know – that I was never in favour of this marriage to begin with. But who am I? Just the disappointing third son of a very ambitious man and family. Why would anyone care about what I have to say? Why would anyone listen? I am merely inconsequential, and thus what I have to say is of no consequence to anyone. I know that, I have always known that.'

As the pirate fucker spoke impatiently then, the king could not help but notice that the prince spoke only of himself here, and not of his family. And while the jealous husband in him wanted to see it as nothing more than further proof for the egotistical nature of this man, the warrior in him could not but remember that he himself had seen that there were indeed different levels of affection felt and shown in this particular family. So, was it really so egotistical then, that this brother here, who clearly loved his sole sister with the fiercest affection, would emphasise his aversion to this marriage with such vehemence, while others, who had encouraged this union, might not have chosen it with the princess' best interest at heart?

And in the end, could he really fault a brother for the love that he felt and the grudges he bore the man that had stolen his sister from him? Truly, whether he liked it or not, Éomer had to accept that he and the princeling were somewhat alike in this, both brothers clinging to their sisters with all their might, insisting on having their best interest at heart, and perhaps blind to the fact that instead they were rather standing in the way of their sisters' possible happiness. Therefore it was somewhat understandable that the king merely let the prince do as he liked, and listened quietly and dutifully to the obligatory "big-brother-speech" without so much as grimacing.

'And yet, I have something to say, and whether you like it or not, you will listen.', the pirate prince started off with a surprisingly threatening edge to his voice, before smoothing it out to a more patronising tone, 'My sister has been unhappy for a very long time, even before the war, and even if she believed herself very good at hiding it, I have always known her well enough to see it. I also know that she's been putting on a brave face for you, but – credit where credit is due – you do seem to see right through it. Although, your offers of help seem to have been – shall we say? – amateurishly thoughtful at best.'

At this point, the pirate prince gave off a smug little chuckle to congratulate himself to a jab well landed, and while Éomer ground his teeth at the mocking tone and quibbling, he did remain silent, and that continuous silence from the king seemed to sober the princeling enough to continue with a more serious tone and intent, 'It wouldn't do to simply tell her to be more open, or to leave behind the constricting chains of expectations. Sometimes it is those very chains that can create a sense of security, and by then, a prisoner has learned to loved their chains. No, it wouldn't do to just take that from her.'

'So, what do you propose then?', Éomer asked then out of the corners of his mouth, trying to make himself understood without attracting the concerned attention of the two women who smiled and waved at them from across the square. Amrothos, however, seemed to have long given up to care if they attracted attention, as he forwent all pretence and turned to him, to fix him with those piercing grey-blue eyes, eyes quite like his wife's.

'Love her, hold her, support her, humour her. Let her run when she wants to, leave her be when she needs to be on her own.', the prince spoke with surprisingly grave compassion, his voice weighed down heavily by the affection he bore his sister, 'I would say: make her happy – but that is nothing but a wish for children. Instead, let me say: listen to her and remember that even if she is queen and wife to you, above all else, she is a woman who wants to be a partner to you and a woman who loves you, even, perhaps, despite her better judgement.'

As though hit by lightning, Éomer turned to the prince, eyes wide and unbelieving, words trapped in his throat, asking a silent question – or rather a dozen questions – to which the pirate only nodded with a grave expression, something akin to resignation mixed with compassion, as though at long last the jealous brother had relented and decided to make way for the future to come, no matter the ramifications, 'Remember, brother, words can lie, where eyes cannot.'

Shaken to the core, with eyes blinking wildly and chest heaving, Éomer opened his mouth only to close it again, unable to think clearly enough to find the right words to speak – and what was there to say really? It was not like he had not suspected, or rather hoped, for those words to be a truth in her heart as well, even if she had denied them before, over and over again, with words of her own or even silence alone. But to hear it confirmed like this, with so little ambiguity, even if only by another person – well, he was only a man in love, after all, and what man would not be moved by the knowledge that his love might be returned?

Words can lie, where eyes cannot – but what if the blue in those eye was as foggy and opaque as the grey sea itself, what truths or lies would one then read in them?, the king wondered, but just as he had wanted to turn to the pirate, to ask him, Amrothos had already turned away from him, being all the smiling, cheeky man-child again as he greeted the women coming towards them. And thus, having lost the chance to speak, Éomer simply sighed and smiled, so as not to arouse the suspicion of his queen walking up to him. And even as she furrowed her brows, asking him under her breath what all this talk had been about, he simply shook his head, signalling her not to worry about it.

Indeed, sometimes words just weren't important.

After the pirate prince and his ladylove had run off to more amusing adventures, his queen had pulled him along once more, to show him more of what this holy day had to offer, and the king, strangely warmed by the talk with his Southern brother-in-law (even if he would never stoop so low as to call him that to his face), simply let her. This day so far had left him in a surprisingly content mood – or, perhaps, that had more to do with the shocking but welcoming revelation he had been dealt – and in that moment Éomer felt as though nothing could faze him now –

Until he was faced with an about 100 feet tall statue in the middle of a damn square, that is.

Awestruck by what he saw, Éomer felt his queen's hand slip from his own, as his feet slowed and he came to a halt before the massive statue. Looking up and down the colossus, Éomer could hardly believe that people were able to create something like this with nothing but their bare hands and sharp minds and the tools that sprang from both – but, of course, the fucking Númenóreans weren't just any kind of people.

The statue showed an impressive man on top of a chariot pulled by seven horses, but strangely enough those horses had fishtails for legs. In his hand, the man of stone held a trident pointing towards the sea, and that maritime aura was also palpable in the rest of the statue. Cut from a blueish-green marble, the sculptured man was clad in seaweed and crowned with it as well, and enthroned on his chariot in the shape of a seashell he spurred on his sea-horses while mermaids and all kinds of creatures of the sea splashed about in the suggested waters lapping up the foot of the statue in gushing waves.

As Éomer considered the statue in all its splendour and craftsmanship, he was sure that he had never seen something as awe-inspiring as that before, nor anything nearly as intimidating – because, surely, a people who would build something like this in honour of their god, or, rather, a god who had something like this built in his honour, well, they were most certainly not to be meddled with. Though, of course, his social upbringing wanted to rebel against such praise for a foreign people or a foreign god, the human soul in him could not deny the impressive magnificence of it all, and so, giving off a whistle of appreciation (and a head shaking in amusement over the ridiculousness of having to build such grandiose statues for their god to boost his / their egos), the king came back to the here and now.

Lowering his gaze, his eyes immediately started to look for his queen, but here in this place, under the eyes of this Southern god, he only found his wife. Now, of course, it would have been understandable, given the traditional garbs she and apparently everyone around here had dressed themselves in on this day, if he had been confused and taken somebody else for her – but no, he would find her anywhere. Sitting there, at the foot of the statue, veil over her head, inclined to look back over her shoulder as though she were waiting for him – and what kind of king would be, if he left his queen waiting?

Jogging over to her, Éomer took his place at her side, kneeling down, even though about a hundred different questions currently ran through his mind, but rather than blurting them out like an overly curious green boy, he stayed quiet, opting to take it all in rather than to question it immediately. His wife, meanwhile, had returned her focus to the foot of the statue before them, and Éomer, not knowing what else to do, simply followed suit.

As he saw now, the foot of the statue before them was actually more than just a mere pedestal on which the sculpture stood; the foundations were actually adorned by seven fish, and their opened mouths seemed to be little fountains, with the water for it apparently coming from the seashell-chariot of the sculpture itself. The purpose of said water soon became clear enough to Éomer as he saw his wife dip two fingers into the opened fish-mouth sculpture before them, before she used her wet fingers to draw the symbol of a trident on her forehead.

It was a blessing Éomer knew well by then, as he himself had been greeted with it upon his arrival at Dol Amroth a month ago, and had witnessed it afterwards, again and again, on several different occasions, and yet, when his queen dipped her fingers into the waters again and then turned to him to give him the very same blessing, the king physically shrunk back. There was a moment of reluctance, a moment in which his own sense of piety seemed in conflict with his desire to please her, because even for a Northerner like him the blasphemy of it all was not lost on him, to receive the foreign blessings of a foreign god. But then again, the hand that reached out to bless him so was not foreign at all, but deeply, intimately familiar, and what god would fault his believer for acting in the name of love?

And thus, the king sighed and with closed eyes he welcomed the blessing from the beloved hand. For a moment, he shuddered under the cold, wet touch of her fingers as she drew the symbol on his forehead (or perhaps that shudder had less to do with the coldness of the touch or its religious implications, and more to do with the touch itself?), but then the touch was gone, and, blinking rapidly, he opened his eyes again to return to the here and now – only to be surprised once more at what he saw then.

His wife and queen, who had already turned away from him again and back towards the fish-mouth fountain, dipped her fingers into the waters once more and moved them towards her abdomen to draw the symbol of the trident one last time. Éomer watched it all – the reverence of her movements as she touched her belly, the fervent belief in her eyes locked in on the statue of her god, the desperate prayer on her whispering lips – with a mixture of curiosity and fascination that made it hard to look away … until he could look at it no longer.

Averting his eyes, the king felt something in his chest constrict almost painfully at the image burned into his mind, as he recalled, once more, that fateful day on the ice when he had almost lost the love of his life and the thing that had driven her to it. There was shameful regret, the feeling that he had failed, and not just in his duty as a king to provide his country with an heir, but also the feeling that he had failed his wife because he, as of now, had not been able to give her the child she so desperately desired. But then, there was also the undeniable feeling of compassion soothing that pain, and above all else, the love he felt for her.

When the king opened his eyes this time, he was not surprised to see his queen already looking at him, or to feel her fingers slipping into the grasp of his welcoming hand. And as they held each other's gazes for a moment, they allowed their eyes to do the talking that their mouths had been unable to do. Words can lie, where eyes cannot, the pirate prince had preached, and indeed, he had been right, Éomer mused. Because when he looked into his wife's eyes, he saw there the very same emotions that he had felt: regret and shame, despair and desire. But there was also hope for better days to come, and that alone seemed enough to inspire even him with the confidence that together, hand in hand, they could walk through life to make a better future, and so he responded to her touch in kind and held her hand all the more tightly because of it.

A shout from a woman broke through the silence of their intimate connection then, and at last the two broke eye contact, instinctively turning around to search for the source of the shout and the reason for it. But as their gazes settled on the crowd of the market, they saw that rather than terror, wonder had been the source of the shout. Having abandoned all that they had been doing, the people had stopped to stare at the sky with open mouths and open eyes, pointing towards the heavens with amazement written all over their faces. And as the king and his queen followed their gazes and looked up as well, they understood at last what all the excitement was about.

Throughout the day, the sunny and clear blue of the early November sky had slowly but surely turned from bright to dark, darkening as the sun vanished behind thickening clouds – dark grey clouds that would bring the rain and their god's blessing with it. And indeed, as the royal couple stared up at the sky – air heavy with humid tension – the first drops could be felt trickling down. First one, then two, and then more and more; and these were not the fine droplets Éomer knew from the North, spraying down in a fine but nasty drizzle – no, these were drops as fat as a fingernail, and when they hit, they splashed. For a short moment all life seemed to come to a rest, as hundreds of pairs of eyes stared mesmerised at the darkening sky and the swirling clouds in it, holding their breath for the inevitable to come in full – and when at last the rain came, it poured down, like waterfalls gushing down from the heavens, soaking the earth and all its creatures on it.

And just like that the spell was broken.

All around them people started shrieking in delight, cheering and shouting their thanks to their god. People threw themselves into the arms of others, and again others started to dance and sing with anybody they could get their hands on, be their familiar or stranger. No one minded that their clothes became completely drenched, clinging to them like a wet, second skin, or that the pictures on the street – painstakingly created with chalk before – were simply washed away in that torrent from the sky. Quite on the contrary: the only thing louder than the thunder of the cloudburst proved to the jubilant cries of the crowd.

A tug at his hand pulled Éomer out of his staring then, and as his eyes followed the source of the motion, he found his wife already on her feet, pulling at him to finally get up and come with her to join in the chaotic joy of it all. And even though the king was slower to rise and follow her lead, he followed her all the same – because she was smiling and laughing, and because she was his queen, and because he loved her. It didn't matter that it was pouring like hell, or that their clothes were soaking wet and already sticking to their skin – he would have followed her anyway, if she only kept on smiling for him like that.

However, they didn't get very far. As soon as they had left the shadow of the statue behind, his wife stopped dead in her tracks, having him very nearly run straight into her. But just as he opened his mouth to ask her what the fuck was going on, she stretched out her arms towards the sky, holding up a clay cup she must have bought earlier, and by the look of pure rapture on her face, it was clear that right now she was entranced in the mysterious rituals of her home and religion and was in no mood to explain things. Following her outstretched arms with his eyes, however, the king understood quickly enough what she was trying to do, and as he glanced around he saw that she was not alone in this.

They're trying to catch the first rain.

All waters are a blessing.

Éomer had to work hard not to scoff at the ridiculousness of these people trying to catch a few drops of rain while the rain was coming down in a fucking torrent all around them, but he bit back his laughter and his remarks. These were their beliefs and their customs, and if they thought that their god was in the rain, then he wouldn't be the one to make fun of them for that. And so, the king's eyes softened as he simply watched his wife reach up towards the heavens, holding the cup aloft, waiting with unbound exhilaration for it to fill, and only once it was already overflowing did she lower her arms.

His queen didn't seem to mind the fact that half the contents of her cup had already been spilt before she had gotten the cup down, nor that the continuous onslaught of the rain pouring down on them made the water in the vessel dance around in it as though the tiniest of pebbles were being thrown into it. Rather she smiled dreamily as though the cup had been handed to her by her god himself; and then she whispered her strange prayers in her strange language, having the words roll off her tongue in a waterfall of her own, before drowning those very words in a large sip from the cup, savouring each droplet it would seem, before –

'Sogo o hûl nìn. Westu Éomer hál!', she said then with her eyes fixed on him, and even though he only understood the Rohirrim words she spoke to him, he understood the offer she made as she gestured for him to take the cup. And even though these customs were not his and this faith and its rites were altogether strange to him (and his own Northern piety rebelled against it), he took the cup from her hands to receive the foreign blessing, not caring what blasphemy it might mean – because it had been her hand who had offered it to him, and he could not have denied her, even if he had wanted to.

All around them, people rejoiced and cheered and drank the blessing of their god.

All around them, emptied cups were thrown on the ground, smashing into a hundred pieces.

All around them, people grabbed strangers' hands, to run down towards the beaches, and to bathe in the sea as though they were the arms of their god.

But the two of them didn't care, as they had no eyes for anything other than each other.

'Le annon veleth nín.', she whispered as he brought the cup to his lips, and even though he did not understand the words she spoke, he still felt the emotion behind it and recognised the yearning in her eyes (because he felt the same yearning in his very own heart), and so he drank deep and full, emptying the cup in one quick gulp before smashing it on the stone tiles. And then they were standing before each other, looking at each other, and really seeing one another, and not as a king and a queen, but as a man and a woman, and as the rain poured down on them, drenching them in the sea god's blessing, that was all they really were and desired to be, nothing more.

There was love raining down on them that day –

but like the rain, love could also become a flood that would leave devastation in its wake.

Yet rain was neither good nor bad,

and love was quite the same.

And when it rains, it pours –

but only in the days of the drought do we yearn for the days of the flood.

FUN FACT #1: I really enjoyed that big-brother-talk. Amrothos is a character I most definitely have gotten way too attached to.

FUN FACT #2: This has been finished for almost two months. Why didn't I upload it earlier? Well, I guess I had hoped to have my newest story finished so quickly that I could upload this chapter and the new story simultaneously. I gave up that ridiculous notion, so here is the chapter as my means of saying sorry.

FUN FACT #3: So, that story about Amrothos ? I am writing it. We are on chapter 5. I will start uploading it - expect it either today or tomorrow!

FUN FACT #4: Damn, now that Purple Hyacinth and Lore Olympus is back, my focus sure has swayed a little. Sorry, again.